


Please Allow Four To Six Weeks For Delivery

by berlynn_wohl



Series: The Hiddlebatch Series [4]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Roleplay, Seattle, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Benedict are still learning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Allow Four To Six Weeks For Delivery

This fic takes place in the same universe as [Snow Day](543482) and [Dirty Weekend](711851). It is not necessary to have read those fics, but there is a brief reference to one of them here.  
****  


**1.**  


When Benedict called, Tom was packing a suitcase, and told him so.

“Where are you off to?”

“Seattle. _Lady in Waiting_ is premiering at their film festival, and I’ve been invited to do a Q and A afterward, at the opening-night gala.”

“I didn’t know Seattle had a film festival.”

“Apparently it’s the largest one in America,” Tom said, tucking two more pairs of socks into the remaining available space in the suitcase. “So how have you been?”

There was a pause, and Tom could hear rapid clicking on the other end of the line, probably typing. “How far is Seattle from Los Angeles?” Benedict asked.

“I don’t know. Quite far. California’s the really long one, you know. I asked how you were.”

“Well yes, it’s about that. We’ve had to delay some location shooting down here. Did you hear about the wildfires? So, perhaps I could join you. When does your flight get in?”

“Ehm, late tonight. There’s the time difference. Ten, I think, their time? Then I have a day, and then the premiere is Tuesday.”

“I’ll bet I can sneak away and see you tomorrow morning. Do you think they’d let me into the festival?”

“Do I think they’d let—you know, your modesty grows increasingly ridiculous with each passing day.” But even though Tom had to laugh at Benedict’s naiveté, his heart was racing at the thought of seeing him again.

 

**2.**

Tom’s flight had been delayed, and he hadn’t arrived at the hotel until twelve-thirty in the morning. For that reason, he felt absolutely no guilt whatsoever about having a world-class lie-in. He was awoken at eleven by his mobile’s text notification sound.

**I’ve just arrived in Seattle. I should be there in one hour. See you soon.**

Tom smiled at Benedict’s inability to use any sort of abbreviations or number substitutions in his texts.

An hour was plenty of time to get himself out of bed, shower, shave, and dress. He vowed that when Benedict arrived, he would meet him downstairs in the lobby. If Benedict came up, they would both end up back in bed, and waste the whole day there. Tom didn’t know when he’d have a chance to return to Seattle, and wanted to actually see the city. There was plenty of time to shag Benedict later.

Tom sat up and stretched, morbidly satisfied by the sound of his back cracking. Then his mobile rang.

“Can you call reception and have them escort me up?” It was Benedict.

“Escort you up where?”

“To your room.”

“I got a text two minutes ago that you’d just arrived at the airport.”

“You what? I sent that an hour ago.”

Christ. “Alright, just wait there. I’ve got to get dressed, and then I’ll come straight down and meet you.”

“Just call down to reception and tell them it’s okay to bring me up.”

Tom clamped his mobile between his chin and his shoulder while he tried to dig up a shirt. “They’ll think you’re a rent boy or something.”

“Oh, please. You couldn’t afford me. Just call them.”

Tom wasn’t going to give in. He wanted to spend the afternoon being a tourist, not grunting into a pillow. “Stay where you are,” he said.

 

*****

 

Tom had Benedict’s bag sent to his room, then approached the concierge for one of those cheesy, colourful maps that are always readily available for tourists and that you could never get folded back the right way again. He could see the disappointment in Benedict’s face, but mouthed a promise: _Later._ Then he asked the concierge, “I’m only here for the day. What do you recommend?”

“Pike Place Market is just a five minute walk from here. And you’ll get a lovely view from the Space Needle today. Not a cloud in the sky.”

Tom thanked her, and on the way out, remarked to Benedict, “I remember Pike Place Market from that documentary that Stephen Fry did. Did you see that? Made it look lovely.”

What they found was not so lovely as the programme had had him believe. The market was tucked into a corner of a brick-paved street, surrounded by several blocks of in-progress gentrification: a Hard Rock café and a faux-retro Starbucks were wedged in amongst Chinese restaurants with barred windows and shops whose window displays of menswear made clear that their clientele was primarily pimps. The milling crowd seemed surprisingly sparse, until Benedict reminded Tom that it was a Monday. The densest gathering of tourists was under a sign reading PIKE PLACE FISH CO, where, behind a long, ice-covered counter, men were tossing whole fishes at one another and yelling. People had their cameras out to capture the spectacle.

Benedict leaned over and said into Tom’s ear, “Can you understand what they’re shouting?”

“Not a word,” Tom said as a trout went flying. He swiveled his head to watch it like it was Wimbledon. “The whole thing is strangely hypnotising, though.”

One of the men dipped below the counter for a moment, then looked right at Benedict. The moment he made eye contact, he shouted something unintelligible and tossed a fish right at him. Benedict caught it…sort of. It would be more accurate to say that he managed to bring his arms up around it when it hit him in the chest. The whooping of the crowd drowned out his shocked string of curses. But upon inspection, Benedict quickly determined that the fish was made of rubber. He tossed it back with perfect accuracy, much to everyone’s delight, then wiped his hands on his jeans, smiling politely. Despite it being a fake fish, it still smelled distinctly fishy, and left a slight but lingering odor on him.

Just behind them, a busker was doing a shockingly decent acoustic version of “When Doves Cry,” rapping his knuckles against the body of the guitar between strums. They turned to watch him for a while. Tom squinted at a bumper sticker on the busker’s guitar case, to determine if he was reading it correctly.

“Do you have any idea what _UFF DA!_ means?” he asked Benedict.

Benedict shook his head and pointed at the sign he had seen a few minutes ago at the fish counter. “I’m still trying to figure out what a ‘geoduck’ is.” He scanned for a restaurant or café nearby. “We should have lunch round here somewhere. I’m famished.”

As soon as he said this, Tom’s eyes got wide, and he fixed Benedict with a look of horror.

“I didn’t think you’d react that way.”

“Have you got any cash on you?”

And then Benedict’s expression mirrored Tom’s own. “I figured you must do.”

“My flight came in late and I didn’t get my money changed. Do you have anything left on you from your per diem?”

“I spent it. You haven’t even got a card on you?”

“It’s in my bag, in my room. I was in such a hurry to get dressed…” Tom put his hand to his mouth. “Oh god, Ben, what are we going to do? We’re in a foreign country, we’ve got no money, and we don’t know the language.”

“Alright, well let’s not panic just yet, and expend precious remaining calories.” Benedict glanced around once more. To the north were two rows of covered market stalls, and between them, a narrow but densely-packed flow of human bodies. At the near end of this crowd, Benedict saw a woman carving off slices of peach and handing them to passers-by. Across from her, a vendor was passing out tiny clear plastic cups, each one with some kind of morsel on the end of a toothpick.

“I have a feeling that if we walk this way, we won’t go hungry.” Benedict took Tom by the wrist and led him down the rows of stalls, cheerfully plucking free samples as he went. Tom followed his lead, and if they weren’t full by the time they reached the end of the market proper, they only had to pop across the street to Beecher’s, where they could eat free cheese curds whilst watching more cheese curds being made in a vat on the other side of a pane of glass.

“I’m glad it’s this we got to watch being made,” Tom said, “and not, you know, those sausages next door.”

When Benedict got bored of the cheese, he opened the map. Having plotted a route, he showed it to Tom. “If we walk down these steps, I think we can get to the waterfront, and from there, see, we can stroll along the waterfront until we get to this park, and it’s just a few blocks east to the Space Needle.”

“Is the Space Needle all it’s cracked up to be, do you know?”

“I imagine so. I’ll bet it’s like the dome in St. Paul’s. You know, you _have_ to climb up. It’s a defining part of the city experience. Everyone does it. You haven’t really seen the city until you’ve seen it from there. You can’t _not_ do it.”

“I’ve never been in the dome at St. Paul’s.”

“Yeah, me either. So what do you think, shall we walk?”

Halfway there, it occurred to them that it would likely cost money to go up into the Space Needle, but they had a pleasant walk nonetheless, along the waterfront and around Seattle Center, which was essentially a big park sprinkled with museums and pavilions. While people-watching near a big fountain, they were approached by two fans, young women with tickets to see the _Lady In Waiting_ premiere who were very polite but obviously making a great effort to contain their excitement. When Tom explained their financial predicament, one of the girls bought the four of them tickets for the monorail, which got them most of the way back to the hotel. Tom chatted to the fans for the duration of the ride whilst Benedict split his time between looking out the window at the city and doodling on the pieces of paper that the girls had asked to have signed. To Tom and Benedict’s great relief, the girls demanded nothing more of them, parting ways at the end of the ride and averting any potential awkwardness.

“People in Seattle are polite, aren’t they?” Tom remarked as they made their way through the shopping centre which housed the monorail station.

“Oh, yes. And much less orange than people in L.A., I’ve noticed.”

After having a proper dinner in the hotel restaurant, Tom took Benedict up to his room. It was only when they’d gotten in the lift that Tom truly grasped that they were about to have sex, for the first time in months, and he felt a stab of adrenaline in his gut.

The moment he closed the door behind them, Benedict made a little awkward gesture, hesitated, then said, “I’ve had an idea just now. You remember what you said a while ago, about my being a rent boy?” He stepped close to Tom, and played with the collar of his shirt, refusing to make eye contact. He had an anxious smile, as if prepared to respond to rejection by claiming that he was only joking. “What if I was? That is, what if I pretended to be?”

Tom was so keen to get in bed with Benedict, he was ready to agree to just about any variable that Benedict cared to tack on. “Okay. Yeah. Except…I’ve never role-played before. How do you do it?”

Benedict shrugged. “It’s just like acting, except with all of your clothes off.”

“So in your case, just like acting.”

“Hush. I’m going to pop outside for a minute or two, and then I’ll knock. Pretend you called some sort of service and had me sent here.”

“Got it.”

It was only after Benedict had left that Tom realised he still had very little idea about what to do, or at least, how he was expected to behave with Benedict between the front door and the bed. What was the etiquette for having an escort sent to your hotel room? Were you supposed to ask if they were a police officer, first thing? Men soliciting prostitutes in American films and television programmes seemed always to be asking, “Are you a cop? You have to tell me if you are.” Although those were street prostitutes, a different sort of situation.

But then what happened after that? Did you offer them a drink? Chat about the weather? Being British, it seemed unnatural to Tom to talk to anyone, regardless of profession, and not mention the weather.

He took comfort in the fact that at least he was finding it easy getting into character: a man who was extremely nervous about his first encounter with a rent boy. When he heard the knock on the door, he jumped. His stomach was doing flips as he went to answer it.

Before him stood a different Benedict from the one he had bid farewell to three minutes ago. He had removed his dark button-down shirt – which he’d been wearing untucked with blue jeans for a classy-casual look – and had folded it tightly and tucked it in his fist. Underneath he was wearing a plain white t-shirt, which, paired with the jeans, made him look a bit more rough, and he had put on an expression to match. Perhaps “rough” wasn’t the right word. He looked like a man who was expected to spend a lot of money on appearing slightly rough. Which sounded perfect for his role.

“Are you Tom?” he said, his voice low but smooth. “I was sent by the agency. I’m Ben.”

“I am. Please come in.” Aaaaaand that was the extent of Tom’s preparation. He was now flying completely blind. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you. There’s the little matter of the…” Keeping his arm at his side, Benedict made a very subtle “cash” gesture by rubbing his thumb against his fingers.

“Oh, yes, right!” As had been established before, Tom had very little in the way of money, but searching through his bag, he found a couple of stray notes that he hadn’t bothered to get changed at Heathrow. This was all just acting, so he folded them tightly to make them look like they could be more, and handed them to Benedict, who pocketed them without looking.

Tom sat down on the little sofa in the lounge area, and tried to pat the cushion next to him in an understated way, so that if it was the wrong thing to do he could pretend that he hadn’t done it at all.

Benedict caught his invitation, but ignored it, instead stepping forward to stand between Tom’s knees. If Tom had been standing, he would have been the taller of the two, but in this arrangement Benedict loomed over Tom, and his gestures were intimidating, though not aggressive. He lightly caressed Tom’s cheek with the first two fingers of his right hand.

“This is your first time with a man,” he said, as if he found it sweet.

“No! Heh, no, I’ve been with men before. It’s just that it’s, ah, been a while. I’ve just been so…lonely.” Tom cringed inwardly, that statement being quite true and not acting at all. “That’s why I called,” he went on, but his voice was trailing off.

“I understand perfectly,” Benedict replied. “Sometimes you get lonely, and you just need it.”

“Yes,” Tom breathed, as Benedict moved incrementally closer. Benedict’s belt buckle was right at eye level. Tom could see that he was not yet hard, but he pictured Benedict unzipping and letting his hard cock just fall out of his jeans. His mouth fell open a bit, like that cock was already out, and about to go into his mouth.

He surprised himself with these thoughts. That was not how they normally did things. Benedict was always on top, but he didn’t _dominate_ Tom. He never needed to work very hard to win Tom over or get him keyed up.

“Why don’t you let me take you to bed, Tom. Then I’ll bet I can make you feel not-so-lonely.”

“Yes, I would like that. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Benedict held his hand out, and Tom took it, allowing himself to be led to the bedroom.

The whole thing was making Tom squirmy because it was just so deadly serious. Tom and Benedict _never_ had sex this humorless and grave. Tom had no inkling of what was going on in Benedict’s mind, but if he had, he may well have found it comforting. Benedict had not planned this. It was just a thought that had popped into his head. But standing in the corridor, waiting to knock on Tom’s door, he had come up with a _modus operandi_ that he expected would carry him through the evening: _This is your job, to service this man sexually. It’s not fun-time, and it’s not about you. You have a mission._ For some reason, he found this sense of duty highly erotic, and it was helping to steer him through the scene.

Gripping his shoulders to guide him the last few steps, Benedict stood Tom between himself and the bed. When the backs of Tom’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, he thought about how easily Benedict could tip him over and onto the bed, climb onto him, have him in a serious and not at all playful way. Benedict did not do this, but Tom still felt a little lurch inside.

Instead, Benedict began methodically opening the buttons of Tom’s shirt. He caressed the newly exposed skin, brushing his fingertips over Tom’s sternum. Then he pushed the shirt off Tom’s shoulders, remarking, “You’re very fit.”

Tom muttered “Thank you,” and blushed, partly because of the simple but assertive compliment, partly because Benedict was now working on the top button of his jeans for him. He tilted to one side, then the other, and he toed his socks off.

Typically, when undressing for sex, Benedict would shuck jeans and underwear in one go (Tom’s, and his own.) This time, just the jeans went first, and then Benedict took one step closer, wrapping his arms around Tom and reaching round to squeeze his arse through the soft, warm cotton. “You’re so tense, still. Am I not doing a good job of making you comfortable?”

“It’s…wonderful. Everything you’re doing is wonderful.”

Benedict brought one hand around to rub at Tom through his underwear and improve his fledgling erection. “Hm, feels like I must be doing something a _bit_ right.” By the time he finally tugged at the waistband of Tom’s underwear, pushing them down his thighs and to the floor, Tom’s cock sprang up. Benedict took a moment to admire it, then said, “Oh, but how thoughtless of me. Getting you naked when I haven’t done so myself. Why don’t you get on the bed, and you can watch me. Would you like that?”

Tom sat at the edge of the bed, then budged backwards, so he was half-reclining, and watched Benedict raptly. He’d seen it many times before; that didn’t lessen the appeal.

Rather than grab his shirt by the back and pull it forwards over his head, he took a more alluring route, grasping the hem and pulling it upwards, stretching to reveal his hard, flat stomach and muscled chest. Whatever film he was making right now, it apparently involved a shirtless scene; his chest had been waxed. Tom rather preferred that tiny bit of fuzz Benedict had, and missed it. He remembered that evening many months ago, snowed in at another hotel, where they teased each other, and he thought to himself, _Hollywood_.

But out loud, he only said, “You’re quite fit as well.”

“Mmm. We’re going to look gorgeous together.” Benedict pushed his trousers down his thighs, then let gravity do the rest whilst keeping his back straight, and with a hasty accompanying removal of his socks, so that he didn’t look like a tit, naked except for socks. When Tom caught this move, he suppressed a smirk, then silently scolded himself for breaking character. It helped him get back on track when Benedict climbed onto the bed and hovered over him, forcing him to lie all the way down. “Now Tom, you have to tell me; do you want to fuck me, or do you want me to fuck you? Or, do you want to do both?”

The question shocked Tom back into character, and he squeaked. “Me. I want you to fuck me. Er, if that’s alright?”

“That’s just fine. Do you want me to suck you off first?”

Tom was dumbstruck by the simple question. It only occurred to him then that they usually didn’t have discussions about the way things should progress. Their cocks just ended up in each other’s mouths, or sometimes they didn’t. “Uh…I don’t know,” Tom finally managed to get out. “…Do you want to?”

“I’m here to please you. You have to tell me what you want. That’s what you paid for.”

“Okay, well…Yeah, suck me, just while you’re getting me ready. But I don’t want to come until you’re fucking me.”

Benedict placed a hand on Tom’s chest. “Don’t go anywhere.” He climbed off the bed, fetching a bottle of lube from his suitcase and returning as quickly as he was able. He dropped the bottle on the bed and made a space between Tom’s legs to kneel in. He grasped one of Tom’s ankles in each hand and lifted Tom’s legs so his ankles were on Benedict’s shoulders. Bending far enough forward that his mouth could reach Tom’s cock, he hadn’t quite folded Tom in half, but he’d certainly given him something to think about.

Concentrating on getting Tom ready for a fucking took much of Benedict’s focus away from sucking him off, but that was alright; Tom had asked not to come, so getting the best of Benedict’s technique was not currently in anyone’s best interest. Instead, while lazily rolling the head of Tom’s cock around in his mouth, Benedict devoted the most attention to Tom’s hole, using a firm but gentle touch to convince it to cease its nervous little twitches and open up.

It didn’t take long, owing mainly to the well-earned trust Tom had in Benedict. In this case, muscle-memory was more powerful than a role-playing mindset. Save for some frantic exceptions, Benedict was very good about taking the time to prepare Tom so slowly, lubricate him so thoroughly, that there was never any burn or sting. Tom knew, his whole body just _knew_ , that by the time the moment of truth came, Benedict’s cock was just going to slide right up him.

Benedict made a big show of slicking his own cock, and when he budged up to put it in, Tom could tell that he was not going to lean forward, but intended to remain kneeling upright. This made Tom’s thighs quake; this position facilitated penetration that was particularly deep and powerful. They didn’t do it this way very often, because it got to be too much for him.

The first few strokes were just fine. Benedict was holding back, giving him just enough and no more, and this fooled him into relaxing somewhat. He let his head tip back onto the mattress, and just enjoyed it.

Then suddenly, Benedict grabbed Tom’s ankles again, lifting them off his shoulders and spreading Tom’s legs wide. At the same time, he gave Tom the full length of him, and Tom began to gasp and cry out.

To help him cope with the deep penetration, Tom began pulling at his own cock; sometimes the additional stimulation served to make what was going on inside him feel less intense. When Benedict saw this, he offered, “I can do that for you.”

“No,” Tom moaned. “Keep holding my…keep holding me like you are.”

Benedict had to bite back the urge to say, “You feel so good.” He reminded himself that it was not about his pleasure. He was here to please Tom; he was being paid to.

Meanwhile, Tom couldn’t stop himself from making the most ungodly noises. Right now everything felt more intense than coming. And Benedict was _relentless_. Tom was convinced that he had to come as soon as possible, just to save his own life, or else Benedict would simply destroy him. When Benedict pulled his legs even wider, that was the trigger. Tom went rigid, his ecstasy coupled with no small amount of fear. His spunk shot out up to his collarbones; moments later, when he was completely drained, he felt something hot dripping onto his belly. He had a few seconds to wonder, “Am I still coming?” before he looked up and saw that it was sweat dripping from Benedict’s forehead. He’d never seen Benedict work so hard.

“Please come inside me,” Tom begged hoarsely, hoping to help Benedict along so that he might end the unbearable intensity that he could no longer withstand.

Benedict swore and shouted and did as he was told, finally allowing himself to be still as he spilled inside Tom. Tom sighed with relief, and tried to concentrate on feeling the throbbing of Benedict’s cock as it emptied its spunk into him, but _everything_ was hot and throbbing and wet, inside and out, and he couldn’t focus.

Tom saw Benedict sway slightly, as though he were about to collapse on the bed beside him. He knew that was what Benedict wanted to do. But Benedict was playing the game to the last, pulling out and standing up next to the bed. “Do you mind if I use your shower before I go?”

The question made Tom’s stomach drop. He blurted out, “How much would it cost for you to stay with me the whole night?”

A wry smile spread across Benedict’s face. “You’re in luck,” he replied. “I’ve been thinking that it’s about time I expanded my services to include ‘the boyfriend experience’…”

Tom sat up, and with a bit of help from Benedict boosted himself off the bed and into a standing position. “What’s the payment plan like for the boyfriend experience, then?”

“Strictly barter system. Did you bring your good shampoo so I don’t have to use the crap hotel stuff?”

“I did,” Tom grinned.

Benedict took Tom’s hand and led him in the direction of the bathroom. “Then you’ve got yourself a deal.”

 

*****

 

The game was well over now. In the shower, they were back to their usual selves, with Tom playing his own private game of “What Is The Simplest Trick That I Can Get Ben To Fall For,” which in this case involved slipping into the bathroom first, hiding the bath towel, and then claiming that people in Seattle were so ecologically conscious that towels were only available for an additional fee, to reduce laundry loads, and guests were expected to air-dry after a shower.

Afterward, they lay in bed, sore but squeaky-clean (and towel-dried), silent except for the occasional happy sigh.

Then Benedict murmured, “Can I ask you a question? And don’t say ‘You just did,’ because I hate that.”

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

“What does it feel like? To, erm, to be the one on the bottom.”

“You mean what does it feel like to have my arse stuffed full of you?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Have you not been able to glean the answer to that by listening to the noises I make? Particularly the noises that sound like, ‘Please Ben, put your cock in me, it feels so good.’”

Benedict said nothing.

“Why are you asking? Are you curious about it?”

“I…”

“Did you want to try it?”

“I was just asking.”

Tom gave it some thought. His answer had been a bit flip, and he cringed to think that he might have put Benedict off with his crass insouciance. He’d simply forgotten what it was like to think of being fucked as a Big Deal. There was so much trust between Benedict and himself, that even though they saw each other far less often than they would have liked, opportunities still arose for him to take certain things for granted.

Tom whispered into the darkness: “I guess it isn’t right to assume that everyone would want to do it just because it happens to make _me_ feel good. I mean, it’s not just about the actual physical feelings. It requires a certain mentality. You have to feel a certain way about yourself, in order to enjoy being penetrated, I think. You have to feel secure. Not everyone has that ability, from a psychological standpoint. Which is fine, no one’s any better or worse of a person for having or lacking that willingness, or enjoyment. I’m sorry, I’m rambling now, but you did ask. But seriously, did you want to maybe try it sometime? Ben…? Ben, are you awake…?”

 

 

**3.**

 

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, Tom smoothed his hands down the lapels of his jacket, then turned and asked Benedict, “How do I look?”

Benedict, his shirt mostly tucked in but his cuffs still undone, looked Tom up and down slowly, then said, “Hang on. Your collar pin isn’t straight.”

Tom lifted his chin whilst Benedict unclasped and re-clasped the pin. The careful attention made him smile wistfully. “I wish it could be like this all the time,” he said. When Benedict seemed nonplussed, he explained: “You always being here, for little things like this. Making sure my collar pin is straight.”

“And shagging you on a regular basis.”

“And shagging me on a regular basis.”

“Nah.” Benedict held out his arms, one by one, so Tom could fasten his cuffs for him. “You know it’s difficult for me, too, for us to be apart so much, but be honest: you’d get tired of me if I were around all the time.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Would.” Benedict went to pick up his jacket, but Tom snatched it first, so Benedict turned around and let Tom help him into it. “Eventually my snoring would drive you round the bend.”

“No, it _wouldn’t._ ” Tom gripped Benedict by the shoulders and turned him back around to look him in the eye. “I don’t mind your obnoxious snoring at all. I don’t mind that it takes you a million years to decide what to order at a restaurant, or the way you giggle during the serious parts of _Gone With The Wind_ , or any of your other bullshit. That’s how I know I love you, you berk!”

Benedict blushed, and became suddenly fascinated with the pattern of the carpet. “But how would we even do it, the way our lives are?” he finally said, barely audible. “I spent ten months of the last year abroad, promoting or filming. We can’t make a home together.”

“Why can’t we? Why can’t we chuck the film business and get a flat together and just stay in London all the time? Maybe we could host a panel show on BBC2.”

Benedict looked back up at Tom, at his wide contagious grin, and pushed him away with a laugh. “Okay, stop it, stop it. Now I don’t know if you were being serious about any of that other stuff. Can we talk about this some other time?”

Tom checked his watch. “Suppose we’ll be late to the screening if we were to start picking out china patterns now. Does my hair look alright?”

Benedict checked him out and confirmed that it did, then smoothed down a strand of his own fringe. “Does mine look okay? I mean, ever?”

 

 

**4.**

 

When Tom returned from Tesco, there was a parcel propped against the door to his flat. Shifting one of the shopping bags to his other hand, he picked it up, a small, plain cardboard box with an anonymous return address, and smiled.

Benedict was in Tom’s sitting room, entranced by _Katamari Forever_. Benedict had never been much into video games, but he found the basic mechanic of _Katamari_ so amusing, it was dangerous to let him get started playing it, lest he lose an entire afternoon to the game. But in this particular instance, Tom had taken the opportunity to go to the shops to refill his empty cupboards.

When he heard the shopping being set on the dining table, Benedict called out, “Did you want me to help with dinner?”

“You know my kitchen’s not large enough for two people to mill about. In fact,” Tom popped his head round the doorway, “since you know that perfetcly well, I suspect you only said it to seem helpful, when you actually have no intention of getting off that sofa.”

Benedict’s reply was, “Come look, I rolled up a cow. It’s little legs are wiggling.”

Tom returned his attention to the dining table. He couldn’t resist opening the parcel first. There were some things that ought to have gone in the refrigerator, but they could wait a few minutes longer. He took out a pair of scissors and used one blade to cut the tape. Inside the box was a brightly-coloured clamshell package containing a string of six anal beads. He examined the package, and once he’d determined that it was exactly what he had intended to acquire, set it back down on the table and tended to the shopping.

Thirty minutes later, when Benedict stopped hearing the clatter of pots and pans and began hearing instead the tinkling of plates and silverware, he shut the game off and wandered into the dining room. He sat down at the table, from which Tom was mostly visible through the kitchen doorway, and browsed the items there. He picked up the plastic clamshell package, nearly dropping it when he realised what it was, and said, “So this is what happens when you go to the shops.”

“What? Oh, those. No, those came in the post.”

“Ah, well that explains everything.”

“They’re for, em…after dinner.”

Benedict set the package back down and sat at the table. “I should bloody well hope so.”

Dish towel over one shoulder, Tom walked in, picked the package up, and put it in a bag. He took it into the bedroom and tossed it on the bed. “We’ll just worry about that later, hm? It’s almost time to eat.”

But Tom regretted having allowed Benedict to see what he saw when he saw it. For about half of the time they were eating dinner, Benedict was glaring at Tom as if to say, _Are we really going to sit here and pretend that you didn’t have a sex toy on this table twenty minutes ago?_ (The other half of the time, he was unable to keep himself from humming the _Katamari_ tune.)

After dinner, Tom cleared the dishes, but he was feeling impatient, so he just stacked them by the sink and invited Benedict to accompany him to the bedroom.

He’d never seen Benedict so apprehensive to receive such an invitation. Standing by the bed, he stated the obvious: “Nervous?”

“Nervous isn’t the right word, necessarily,” Benedict replied, which confused Tom until he pointed at the package on the bed and went on, “It just makes me feel a bit inadequate, like I’m not enough for you.”

Tom burst into shocked laughter. “No, no, you don’t understand. I mean, first of all, you’re plenty for me, I can’t believe you were worried about that. But no, those are for _you_.”

“What do you mean, for me?”

“Don’t you remember that conversation we had in Seattle? You asked me what it felt like to have something…inside…” Tom trailed off, as he could see by the look on Benedict’s face that he did not remember this conversation. “I suppose you were falling asleep a bit. But you must have been thinking about it quite a lot, to have said something. You wouldn’t have brought it up if you hadn’t given it some thought.”

“I have been thinking about it. But do you understand that this is like I had said, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we got a pet cat’ and you brought home a Bengal tiger and said, ‘Oh, by the way, this is Mittens.’” Benedict picked up the package and pointed at it. “I mean, look at this. This last one is the size of a tennis ball.”

“You’re exaggerating just slightly.”

“The point is, I thought I might just have a finger up my bum or something. This is some Jedi Knight-level shit.”

Tom took a half step backwards. “Okay! Okay, I get it. If you don’t want to do it, it’s fine, I’ll put them away. It was just an idea.”

But Benedict couldn’t stand to see the expression on Tom’s face; it looked like guilt, like he’d somehow betrayed Benedict’s trust. Tom took the package from him and opened the door to his closet to toss it in, but Benedict stopped him. “Wait. I do still want to. I mean, I do want to know how it feels. But can we just start smaller than that, and see how things go?”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I did go a bit mad, didn’t I?”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry for shouting. Can I just have a shower before we get to it?”

Tom returned to the kitchen to take care of the dishes whilst Benedict went into the bathroom. Long after he had finished doing the washing up and making a phone call, the shower was still running.

“You can’t stay in there forever, darling,” Tom called from outside the bathroom door. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face the music.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” Benedict shot back, “you’ve arranged for musical accompaniment as well.”

When Benedict finally emerged from the bathroom, the beads were still nowhere in sight, but Tom had placed a stack of towels and a bottle of lube on the bed. A familiar sight for Benedict, but it meant something new now. Already he was getting an inkling of what this new experience would be like: the purpose of that bottle of lube was to make a difficult task easier and more comfortable for him. And he’d be rubbing himself on one of those towels to get himself off, if it happened that he was being fucked into the mattress and no other method of stimulation was available to him.

After having a good leer at Benedict, still slightly damp from the shower, Tom cheerfully spread one of the towels out, oblivious to those thoughts of Benedict’s, and encouraged him to lie down. “On your back,” he suggested, “so you can touch yourself during.”

Ah, perhaps not so oblivious then. Tom followed him onto the bed and covered Benedict’s body with his own. “Thank you for letting me share this with you,” he said between kisses to Benedict’s neck. “I’m going to do everything I can to make it good for you. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Benedict nodded as best he could with Tom under his chin. “But what if I don’t like it?” he murmured.

“Well, then it will be such a disaster that you’ll have to leave, and it’ll mean we’ll never be able to see each other again, won’t it? Seriously, what do you _think_ will happen? If you don’t like it we’ll stop, and you can do whatever you want to me, instead.” Tom pulled back just a bit, holding his arms out and inviting Benedict to help undress him. This was pleasantly familiar: pulling Tom’s t-shirt over his head, unzipping his trousers, reaching inside to have a feel of his cock as it hardened, all while Tom straddled him. The room had seemed cool when he’d come in after his shower, but now he was pleasantly warm, and just a bit keen. Tom got up off the bed to finish getting undressed, then came back to lie close beside him. He encouraged Benedict to spread his legs, to get used to having them wide open. He stroked Benedict’s cock and over his balls and down to his perineum, just rubbing, making occasional forays to his inner thighs. Benedict relaxed once he realised that Tom wasn’t trying to put anything anywhere just yet, though he did tense up sometimes when he was inadvertently tickled.

But as Benedict’s cock got harder, Tom paid less attention to it, choosing instead to concentrate on the warm, close space beneath his balls. Gradually, he went from lying next to Benedict to lying on top of him, letting his stomach rub against Benedict’s cock a bit, and then he slid down until he was kneeling between Benedict’s legs.

“You feel good?” he asked.

“Mmm.”

Tom nudged Benedict into spreading his legs wider and putting his knees up a bit, so he could get a good look. It certainly settled any question about Benedict’s natural hair colour; he’d dyed it dark, as he was asked to do more often than not these days, but this angle revealed what his eyebrows only hinted at: he had a gorgeous ginger bush, and just the lightest dusting of fuzz around and below his balls. Tom picked up the bottle of lube and pumped a generous amount into his left palm to warm it, then gathered it up with his right middle finger.

“You’ll likely feel some discomfort at the start, but it should never hurt. If it hurts, you must tell me, and I’ll stop immediately. Alright?”

“Mm.”

“You should be touching yourself. It will make it easier.”

“Mm.” Benedict took the head of his cock between his thumb and first two fingers, rubbing the foreskin back and forth over it. Meanwhile, Tom was pressing the tip of his finger to the little puckered entrance below. He was just flirting with it, feeling the little twitches as it responded to his touch, getting Benedict used to the idea of having something there. It didn’t take long before Benedict let his knees fall open, and Tom interpreted that as encouragement, so he pressed in earnest.

The tip of his finger slipped right in, but immediately Benedict contracted hard around it, trying to push it out. Tom smirked, as if you say, _Oh, no you don’t_. He stayed right where he was, prepared to wait out the peevish muscle.

Benedict said only, “Um,” and stopped stroking himself, though he kept his hand where it was. Rather than attempt to penetrate further, Tom rotated his finger, pressing against the muscle on all sides -- just as it was doing to him -- and getting it slicker. Only when Benedict’s body relaxed, and Tom could feel that he would be able to push in further, did he remove his finger, gathering up more lube before reinserting it, all the way to the third knuckle.

“Oh my God,” Benedict shouted, but then he was quiet for long time. Tom was uninterested in finding Benedict’s sweet spot just yet. He wanted to focus on loosening him up, massaging him from the inside. Having gotten that far, it no longer felt like Benedict’s body was trying to push him out. Now it felt like he was trying to pull Tom in. Tom had never felt such powerful suction. The rhythmic squeezes on his finger made his cock throb in sympathy. And he understood the confusion that Benedict had to be feeling at this moment. He knew how scary it could be, letting someone else touch your insides, letting them make you feel good that way.

He pulled out to add some lube on his first finger, and when he returned, he found Benedict’s hole far more welcoming, accommodating the two fingers with relative ease. He continued working Benedict through the spasms and clenches, fighting against that powerful muscle, until Benedict was completely open and unresisting. Now it was much easier to delve deep enough to touch Benedict’s prostate, and Tom watched his face carefully for his reaction. He was not disappointed. When he found the little bump, Benedict’s eyes got wide and he let out a cry. His hips began to roll, seeking to make a rhythmic contact with Tom’s fingertips. Tom chuckled at this, but indulged him, pressing back to match Benedict’s motions. “How’s that?”

“Unh. It feels like you’re touching the inside of my cock.”

Meanwhile, Benedict had once again ceased touching the outside of his cock, and yet a thick strand of pre-come was emerging from it, forming a continuous thread that eventually reached his belly. He could feel the fluid working its way out of his urethra, not a new sensation, but more powerful than he’d ever experienced before. All the sensations were familiar, in fact – urgency, a desire for more friction – but they were happening in a new, deep place inside him.

Tom rotated his fingers again, touching Benedict’s prostate only occasionally as he continued massaging him inside, intending to show him that it was not just that one spot that felt good; everything Tom could reach with his fingers was exquisitely sensitive, and he was quite pleased with himself that he could make Benedict squirm and whimper without having to constantly prod at his prostate.

“It feels like I’m going to come,” Benedict said, “but also, not.”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He slowly removed his fingers, leaving Benedict empty and bereft. He’d been waiting for the perfect moment, in order that he might get his way. “How do you feel now?” he asked.

Benedict thought for a moment, then replied, “Just…all wet and slippery.” He lifted his arse, presenting it, wordlessly begging to have something in there again.

“That’s what I thought. Now listen, I have these beads that I could…”

Benedict didn’t even give him a chance to finish his attempt at persuasion. “Yes, alright, you win. Get out the fucking beads and just do something already!”

Tom reached under the bed. He hoped Benedict would not notice; while he’d been in the shower Tom, ever the optimist, had already gotten out the scissors and cracked open the maddening clamshell packaging. The beads popped right out of the molded-plastic casing. They were a single piece of black silicone, with a flexible strand between each one, and each was larger than the one before. (The last one was not nearly as large as a tennis ball, as Benedict had claimed, but its size was not inconsiderable.)

Things began to get a whole lot more slippery; the beads had an uneven weight distribution, and they slipped free of Tom’s grasp a couple of times, as he tried to handle and manoeuvre them with slick lube-covered fingers. At last, he managed to guide the first bead into Benedict’s hole, which was relaxed enough to offer no resistance.

“I barely felt that,” said Benedict, who had been bracing himself for something more devastating.

“Well, Ben, that’s because you’ve become a loose, indiscriminate slag. Now here comes the second one.”

Anchored now to Benedict’s body, the second bead went it with less fumbling. Benedict’s hole squeezed snugly around it as it sank in.

“I think the third one is going to be where the fun begins. Are you ready?”

“Do it.”

Sure enough, when Tom pressed the third one in, it pushed the first and second ones further up, and Benedict grunted. Unlike Tom’s fingers, it didn’t rub and massage, it teased, and Benedict began to squirm.

“Hold still,” Tom scolded, “or I won’t be able to get the rest in.”

But before proceeded, a thought occurred to him, and he gently tugged at the strand until the third one popped out again. He chuckle at Benedict’s cry of frustration. He pushed it back in, then pulled it back out, watching the way Benedict’s hole clung to it in both directions.

“That’s kind of fun, actually,” he remarked, “watching something go in an out.”

Benedict collected himself just long enough to grin at Tom. “Hm, isn’t it?”

Heat crept up Tom’s neck and over his cheekbones; he had always tried not to dwell on the fact that Benedict had seen him this way many times, splayed and damp and slack-jawed while he was being fucked and filled. Now the tables were turned, but it was more difficult to keep that thought, that image of his thoroughly undignified self, at bay.

The fourth bead was wider than Tom’s two fingers, and Tom had to push harder to see it enveloped by Benedict’s body.

“You’re doing so well,” Tom whispered, barely audible over Benedict’s hard breathing. He planted a kiss low on Benedict’s belly, where he guessed the beads were gathering, then tormented him some more by working the fifth bead back and forth. This required more effort than it had with the third one, and had a far more shattering effect on Benedict.

After allowing the fifth bead to settle inside, Tom paused in his work to look up and watch the rest of Benedict more closely. The pleasure seemed to overtake his body in waves – a minute or so would go by where he appeared to have things under control, but a miniscule shift in an attempt to get more comfortable would have him panting and groaning again.

“How do you feel now?” Tom couldn’t resist asking again, because he liked the answers he got.

“Weird,” said Benedict. “Really weird and full. Like, so full, I couldn’t take any more no matter how I tried. Is that all the beads?”

“No, there’s one more.”

“Well for God’s sake, put it in.”

Tom pushed, and Benedict bore down, and the bead got in, stretching him wide before being swallowed up. Tom thought that the toughest part would be getting the widest part of the bead in, but after it disappeared Benedict started making louder, bewildered noises, though he did not signal that he was in pain.

A quick visual inspection told Tom all he needed to know. At the end of the strand of beads was a handle, allowing one to easily pull the whole works out but also wide enough to keep it from disappearing inside. The length of the cord from the largest bead to the handle was four inches or so. And judging by the length that remained visible, Tom concluded that the bead was not suspended in the tight sleeve of muscle just inside Benedict; it had been pulled far up inside him, completely safe, but doubtless rolling against all the other beads inside and driving him mad.

“It’s…ungh…it’s too much, I think I need to have them out.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No, I just don’t know what the hell is going on! It’s touching everything. It feels like they’re up inside my cock. If I come with these inside me, I’ll die.” He reached out to clutch Tom’s wrist and whimpered, “Please don’t let me die.”

“No one’s ever died from having their prostate stimulated too efficiently.”

“That’s even worse; that means I’m going to be the first!”

Benedict looked so good writhing about, Tom climbed on top of him and caged him with arms and legs, not resting his weight on him, but feeling the heat coming off him, and letting Benedict brush against him as he squirmed. After several minutes, Benedict began to calm down, though it was hard to tell whether that was because he was getting used to having the beads inside him, or whether he was simply exhausted.

“Will you fuck me?” Tom whispered into Benedict’s ear.

“I can’t move right now,” Benedict said, seemingly panicked at the suggestion. “I would be useless at fucking.”

“I’ll do the work,” Tom said, as if that prospect frightened Benedict any less.

Tom pumped some more lube into his hands and slicked Benedict’s cock. Just his shifting around on the bed, and especially swinging his over Benedict to straddle him, caused an upset in the arrangement of the beads and set Benedict to moaning again. Tom didn’t draw it out. He knew Benedict was agonisingly close to coming, so he sank down on his cock without fanfare, and began to ride.

Groan after unearthly groan was rolling out of Benedict’s mouth as his body thrummed. He was incandescent, flushed from his sternum to his eyebrows, and his pulse was visible in his neck. The shock, the unbearable pleasure, came afresh as Tom’s weight compressed the space inside him, forcing the beads in new directions with each bounce. Never before had Benedict made more noise than Tom when they fucked.

“Oh God. Can…can you…when I tell you to, can you pull them all out at once while I’m coming?”

Tom grinned. What a lovely idea! It hadn’t even occurred to him. “I can do that.”

“Soon.”

“Okay.”

“Close.”

“Okay.” Tom leaned back and felt around until he found the handle. He kept a grip on it as he continued to bounce. Suddenly Benedict thrust his arse in the air, jerking Tom with him, threatening to unseat him entirely. “Oh God now now _now pull them now_.”

Tom tugged on the handle, and Benedict screamed louder and louder as each bead came free. He continued to bellow long after he had pumped his load into Tom; he had far more built-up tension to release than that. His whole body was convulsing, a mess of sweat and shivers and noises. Tom held on and waited patiently until Benedict seemed to be finished coming, watching the clock just out of curiosity about the duration.

Even after Benedict had stilled, he continued to sigh loudly with each exhalation. “You haven’t finished,” he breathed, when at last his glassy stare left the ceiling and fixed on Tom.

“It’s alright.”

With great effort, Benedict lifted one arm and made a clumsy “come here” gesture, inviting Tom to straddle his chest and fuck his face. Tom took him up on the offer, carefully placing his cock in Benedict’s slack, open mouth, making an effort to get off without choking him.

He knew it wouldn’t take long, but as he felt orgasm approaching, he was distracted by a wet trickle down his thigh. “I’m sorry, I’m dripping on you,” he said. Benedict merely grunted in reply, and after some feeling about, managed to shove two fingers into Tom. Tom’s hips were pumping erratically, and Benedict’s fingers slipped in and out; Tom could not tell if Benedict was trying to plug him up, and failing miserably, or trying to drag more spunk out of him, and succeeding admirably. Either way, the thought of it pushed Tom over the edge, and he emptied himself onto Benedict’s tongue, flooding his mouth. He pulled out slowly, giving Benedict the opportunity to suck and clean the head of his cock with each weak swallow.

“Thank you,” Tom said. “I know you were knackered.”

“Hmm.”

Tom laid down alongside; he could feel Benedict’s body still smouldering. “Let me know when you want to get up and have a shower.”

“Mmm…well, what day is today, Tuesday? Wake me on Thursday, then.” Benedict tried to roll to one side, but it proved too much effort and he soon gave up. “Thursday week,” he amended.

Tom caressed every inch of Benedict’s sweaty, sticky skin what he could reach with his own sweaty, sticky hands. “You can’t sleep through the whole week,” he protested. “I’m throwing you a birthday party on Saturday.”

“Should have thought of that,” Benedict said. The next noise he made, minutes later, was a soft snore, which Tom didn’t mind having to listen to.

 

 


End file.
